


remember the fools, love

by teatin



Category: DCU (Comics), Hellblazer, Justice League Dark (Comics)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatin/pseuds/teatin
Summary: The words come out before she can stop herself. “When will I see you again?”They hang heavily in the air, the painful silence only accentuated by the bustle of rushing passengers all around them. Instantly, she knows she’s made a mistake. She’s worn her heart on her sleeve again, despite the warning signs, despite the things he’s done. When it comes to John Constantine, she’ll forever stay that same foolish girl, never learning, never changing.John turns slightly to look at her over his shoulder. The sight is so familiar that she feels her chest constrict.“Be well, Zee,” he says simply.She watches as he disappears in the crowd, lost to her once more.(Or: Five times John and Zatanna's paths cross, and one time they might just finally converge.)
Relationships: John Constantine/Zatanna Zatara
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	remember the fools, love

**Author's Note:**

> In which I attempt to weave John and Zee's entire history into something somewhat resembling a continuous canon. Includes bits and pieces of their pre-Nu52 relationship, as well as plot details from the second volume of Justice League Dark. For reference, in this timeline, Newcastle happens sometime between iii and iv.

**i.**

The first time she meets John Constantine, she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s not someone she should ever get close to.

She scoffs at the idea. As if she would ever have to worry about that. After all, this job is a one-time thing. Get in, get out, no strings attached. Neither of them is looking for a long-term partnership, and even if they were, they would certainly not be each other’s top picks. In other words, they’re worlds apart.

He’s a foul-mouthed, ill-mannered bastard who always seems to keep everyone at arm’s length and regards everything with the suspicion that could only have been borne of too many jobs gone wrong. His demeanor is somehow both coarse and guarded in a way that would put off even the most good-natured, and there is a dreadful, cold air in the way he moves, one that would repel even the most curious.

She’s young and naïve, and maybe even a bit impulsive (not that she would ever admit it). They make for an unlikely pair. Where she’s direct, he’s reserved. Where she prefers to charge, he opts to hang back and strategize.

This makes for a rather vexing alliance. More than once, they’ve stepped on each other’s toes, both figuratively and literally. She’s just about to tell him to piss off when they finally get their first lead, which somewhat placates their growing restlessness, in the form of a shadow lurking in the corner of the alley. Immediately, she makes to give chase, when-

“Wait.” His hand shoots out, gripping her elbow firm enough to make a point, but not hard enough to hurt. She whips around, leveling a death glare at him, but John remains calm. Unfazed.

“Listen.” He tells her, voice dropping to a whisper. So she does, and sure enough, something _bigger_ comes out at them from the opposite direction. He only has enough time to throw them both to the ground and pull out a glowing pendant. The creature hisses, as if scalded, and retreats.

It takes her a moment to calm her racing heart. When she does, he’s standing over her, offering her a hand.

“You alright, love?”

She blinks once, twice, then pushes herself off the ground with as much dignity as she can muster. She can hear him bite back a laugh, and makes a conscious decision to ignore it.

So yeah. She won’t have to worry about that at all. John Constantine is an insufferable bastard who gets under her skin just by existing, and she can’t wait for this to be over with.

Despite it all, she finds herself sneaking glances at him every now and then. Observing the way that his every move seems to be made with great deliberation. The way he traces a faded engraving reverently, the way he chants an incantation, each Latin syllable strong and clear. The way he stands his ground against the unknown with nary a trace of fear.

He seems so confident in his own skin, so sure of his own abilities. She envies him, loath as she is to admit it.

He catches her staring once, to her dismay, and gives her the most infuriating smirk ever known to man.

“Like what you see?”

She turns away with a huff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He’s throwing her off her game, that asshole. So of course when the next danger presents itself, she charges in before he can stop her.

Unsurprisingly, she ends up biting off more than she can chew, but relishes in the way his unflappable façade cracks just a little as he rushes in after her, swearing under his breath.

“That was daft,” he says afterward, as they’re leaning against a brick wall, trying to catch their breaths. “Absolutely bloody mad.”

“Says the man who deals with demons,” she attempts to put on her best smirk, but it morphs into a pained grimace instead.

John is instantly alert. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” she turns away from him and examines her hand. It must’ve been injured in the scuffle without her noticing, too caught up in the adrenaline rush of the moment. No matter. She can fix herself up just fine. _“Laeh eth dnuow.”_

Nothing happens. In fact, her hand seems to sting even more.

John waits patiently as she tries several more spells, all without success, before deciding to put her out of her misery. “That won’t work. The burn was inflicted by a demon, not even backwards magic can fix it. At least, not immediately.”

She tries to ignore him, but he puts a hand on her shoulder, stilling her fidgeting, and offers his hand. “Let me help.”

For the second time that night, she eyes his extended hand skeptically. “Why do you care?”

“I imagine it won’t do to return from your first big job with a mangled hand,” he says matter-of-factly. “Besides, Zatara will never let me hear the end of it. It’s more trouble than it’s worth, love.”

Too tired to argue further and already in pain, she reluctantly puts her hand in his and watches as he tears a strip of gauze, dips it in a bottle of some type of ointment and wraps it around her injured hand.

“Do you always carry this around?”

“It comes in handy much more often than you’d think,” he says. “Magic can’t fix everything, and even if it could, not all of us were born with a natural affinity for it.”

She watches as he works. His hands are rough, callused, and significantly bigger than hers. To her chagrin, she finds herself admiring the way his fingers move with practiced ease, the way his brows crease slightly in concentration-

Okay, she admits, in this light he looks almost… _passably_ attractive.

The thought sends shudders through her body, which he mistakes as a pain response from where the gauze has touched a particularly tender spot, and gives her a rueful smile.

“Sorry,” he says. “Truth be told, I’m not used to handling delicate things.”

“I’m not delicate.”

He looks at her for a long moment. “I know.”

“Well, I’d say that wasn’t half bad,” John remarks as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it with his Zippo, taking a long, relaxed drag.

Zatanna hums noncommittally. They’re standing in front of Shadowcrest, dirty and disheveled, having earned a few scratches here and there along the way. But they’re alive and in one piece, and that counts as a success, in her book.

For a moment, they stand together in silence, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

John gives in first. “Well, this is where I leave you,” he gestures at her bandaged hand. “Keep it on for a day, it should heal enough for you to work your magic on it.”

She forces a polite smile. “Thanks.”

He simply shrugs and walks away, back the way they came. Suddenly and without warning, she feels something tug at her insides, and before she can stop herself-

“Wait.”

He stops in his tracks and turns slightly to throw an inquiring look at her over his shoulder. She mentally curses herself, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.

“I – uh,” a thousand things flash through her mind all at once. Finally she decides on the diplomatic option. “I hope to see you around.”

That same, infuriating smirk plays across his lips, and she immediately regrets saying anything. God, she hopes she didn’t sound too eager. The man doesn’t look like he needs any help boosting his ego.

“Trust me, it’s better that you don’t.”

With that, he turns away. She can only watch as he vanishes into the darkness, leaving no trace to suggest he was ever there.

John Constantine, she notes, is an enigma.

**ii.**

As it turns out, she does see him again.

Which, she supposes, is not that hard when they both run within the same circle. And in a place like the Oblivion bar, the favorite haunt of many a magician, running into each other is only a matter of time.

She’s sitting at the bar, untouched drink on the counter, and generally contemplating her existence when an unmistakable aura sweeps past her and settles on the stool next to her.

She holds her breath, but he doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t seem to register her presence at all, even. Without provocation, she feels frustration bubble up within her. Even when he isn’t doing anything, John Constantine manages to get under her skin.

“Constantine,” she clears her throat, trying to keep the irritation from showing on her face.

He looks up, and for the briefest moment, surprise flits across his features before he carefully rearranges them into a sarcastic smile.

“Zatanna,” he raises a glass. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Were you hoping you wouldn’t?”

“Sorry, love, a man recognizes a trick question when he hears it,” he looks at her hand holding the glass. “Your hand looks all better. Haven’t been getting into any trouble lately, have ya?”

She regards him for a long moment. “You like trouble, don’t you, John? No sensible person seeks out demons and monsters that eagerly.”

John smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, but I know you enjoyed it, too.”

“Well, unlike you, not everything is a game for me. I don’t follow monsters into the dark because I get a kick out of it, I do it because I have to.”

“All the more reason to enjoy it,” John points out. “If you must do it, might as well learn to love it. There’s no shame in that.”

He makes a reasonable point, she grudgingly admits. Even if by doing so, she’s admitting that she _enjoyed_ John Constantine’s company, which is a ridiculous notion to even entertain in the first place.

“I wasn’t enjoying anything, only observing,” she deflects. “It’s good for magicians to open themselves up to learning new things.”

He inches closer. “Does that mean you’re interested? Because I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

 _Oh, he’s a cocky bastard._ She knows she ought not to rise to the bait. She knows she’s standing at the precipice of something life-changing, dangerous even. If she takes the plunge, she may not be able to walk it back.

She knows the sensible thing is to walk away. But she’s feeling hot and frustrated and in the cacophony of the crowd, his smirk is almost intoxicating.

“You know what? Show me what you got.”

(After, when all is said and done, she often finds herself replaying this particular memory. The turning point. The moment that would lead her life to where it is now.

The worst part is, if given the chance to do it all over again, knowing what she does now, she’s not sure she would choose any differently.)

It all starts innocently enough. They spend hours poring over dusty spellbooks, deciphering ancient languages, reciting forbidden spells. He teaches her simple banishing spells, shows her how to handle basic magical artifacts. _It’s good to always have a backup plan_ , he tells her. _You never know when you might need it. Always be prepared._

Looking back, she doesn’t think anything could’ve prepared her for this.

She can’t remember exactly when it started, but she knows it has been building up under the surface, slowly, bit by bit, for a long time. She thinks a part of her has always known that one day, it would come to this. He is like a tidal wave: powerful, overwhelming, and oh so inevitable.

John Constantine, she finds, is inevitable.

The very first time, it takes her by surprise. It’s not grandiose or romantic, and there are no explosions of fireworks. But it is a culmination of something they both know was coming, even if they couldn’t bring themselves to admit it. That part does not surprise her, the inevitability of it all. Their restraint has always been a house of cards, ready to topple at the slightest quiver. And it does. An accidental touch, a gaze held a split second too long, that is all it takes for them to give in.

Before she knows it, she’s pulling him close, and the moment their lips finally, blessedly meet in a frantic whirlwind, she’s never felt so alive. He reaches for the table behind her and carelessly shoves a vast assortment of books, parchments, crystal balls and whatever else onto the floor, before hoisting her up. His fingers move to undress her with such practiced ease that it ought to make any sensible girl worried, but Zatanna is too lost in the moment to care, as he trails kisses down her neck, her breasts, going slowly, teasingly, down between her thighs.

She tries to bite back a gasp, and is met with that same familiar smirk as he gazes up at her.

“Enjoying it, love? I’m only getting started.”

“John,” she breathes. _We shouldn’t,_ her last rational thought nags at her. _This is a bad idea_. But the words escape her. Because the truth is, right now, in this very moment, she doesn’t think it’s a bad idea at all.

In fact, she’s never wanted anything more than this.

John pauses, his gaze searching. “What do you want, Zee? Just say the word.”

And just like that, all rationality deserts her once more.

“I want you,” she says, and this time, there is not a hint of a doubt in her voice, or in her mind as he takes her for the very first time.

(She never knew bad ideas felt so good.)

She scrambles for purchase, and finally rips his shirt off. For a moment she is awestruck: every inch of his skin is covered in various magical runes and tattoos, some temporary, others permanent, and almost all of them glowing and thrumming with energy, matching his passion.

In this light, for the first time, he looks almost beautiful.

Afterwards, they lay in post-coital bliss, him absent-mindedly playing with her hair, her tracing the runes on his skin. Breathing each other in.

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispers into her ear.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” she tells him, a hint of mischief twinkling in her eyes. 

A self-satisfied smirk plays across his lips. “Even better than you imagined, yeah?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re a dick.”

“You love it.”

“Careful, one simple spell and I can turn you into something lower than you already are.”

He feigns shock. “Uh-oh. Luckily, I know precisely how to prevent that from happening.”

He brings their lips together then, kissing her so gently and tenderly that it startles her, to know that he’s capable of such softness.

( _You love it_ , he repeats, triumphantly and wordlessly, in every kiss.

God help her, she _does._ ) 

When she returns home and sees the way her father looks at her, she is startled. For one terrifying second, she is afraid that he had discovered her secret, had read it all on her face. But Giovanni Zatara’s face relaxes into his usual warm, fatherly smile, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

She promises herself that it would be the last time. She convinces herself that it was merely a spur-of-the-moment decision, fanned by the desires of the flesh. There’s no point in treading the same path twice, she tells herself.

As it turns out, they find each other drawn back together, time and time again. Like a moth to a flame, though Zatanna can’t tell which one of them is the hapless moth and which one is the flame that threatens to consume the other whole.

And so she ignores her father’s meaningful looks, turns a blind eye to the way he shakes his head disapprovingly. Because she is young and naïve, and maybe even a bit impulsive, and the allure of the forbidden is too strong for her to resist.

And because of him. John Constantine, who touches her so gently, so reverently, the way a believer would pray at his Goddess’ feet. She never dares to hope for anything more than that. But sometimes, she wonders. And every time, she stops the words before they can be spoken into existence. They hang in the air between them, unspoken, unacknowledged.

Until one day, it ends as quickly as it began.

“This has to stop, Zatanna,” her father demands. In all her life, she’s never heard him so angry. It leaves her sad and somehow deeply ashamed.

Still, she tries to reason with him. “But Father, don’t you trust me to make my own decisions?”

Giovanni’s gaze softens then, and he puts his hands on her shoulders in a gesture she recognizes as both comforting and placating. “Of course I do, _piccola_ ,” he says, voice soothing. “It’s him I don’t trust.”

He stands up straight. “Men like John Constantine are never to be trusted. They _destroy_ , Zatanna. It’s best that you don’t see him again, my love.”

She is silent. She knows her father is right, knows she shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. The truth is, their relationship had always come with a sell-by date, she was simply too caught up in the moment to see it. Whatever she thinks they had together was never going to go anywhere. She had known from the day they met, John Constantine is not someone she should ever get close to.

She’s not as broken up about it as she had expected. It’s not her first experience with ending a relationship, and she’s learned all there is to learn from him (both in magic and in… other pleasures).

It’s only logical to close this chapter, and begin a new one.

**iii.**

Of course, nothing stays buried forever. And it is a truth rarely acknowledged that the harder you try to run from something, the sooner it catches up with you.

It’s never good news when John Constantine calls in a favor. She should’ve known better, should’ve seen it coming the moment he showed up on her doorstep, a disarming smile on his lips and the promise of a noble cause in his inviting words.

She used to think that she simply didn’t know him well enough. John Constantine, she knows, has always been a wild card. She tells herself there’s no way she could’ve foreseen this.

It’s a lie, of course. She has always known exactly who he is, and she accepts him anyway, vices and all. The truth is, she trusts him. He has never given her any reason not to.

So when he plays on her eager heroism, her desire to prove herself, she doesn’t hesitate. “You can count me in.”

When she tries to remember the aftermath, everything is a blur, as if a thick fog had been cast over her vision and her memory. All she recalls is the nauseating smell of burning flesh, and the searing pain in her palm, overtaking all of her senses.

“Zee.”

Shaken out of her trance, she finds John standing before her, a troubled expression marring his features. Somehow, they had made their way back to Shadowcrest. Where she and her father lived, where her father will never live again.

He had saved her and brought her back to safety, because her father had asked – demanded him to. John has always been, at the very least, slightly intimidated by her father. _Zatara will never let me hear the end of it_ , he had told her once, in a dream, so many lifetimes ago. The memory stirs something indescribable within her, and her knees almost give out, until John catches her in his arms.

She wants to scream at him. She wants to cry and throw up, and then curl into herself and never come out again. But John’s hand is on her wrist, and reality has never felt more startling.

Gently, almost gingerly, John examines her hand. Scalded from the botched séance, still bearing the wound from where hellfire had licked her on its way to burn her father alive.

“You’re hurt,” he says, in the voice people use when they’re pointing out the obvious because they don’t know what else to say. What else _is_ there to say? “Let me help.”

Something within her snaps. A vague, distant memory. Suddenly it’s all too much, and she pulls back from him, as if burnt.

She _has_ been burnt. Not just physically, but by him. In the end, she’s finally, belatedly realized which one of them is the doomed moth drawn to its demise.

She averts her gaze. She cannot bear to look him in the eyes, not now, maybe not ever. “Don’t touch me.”

“Please, Zee,” his voice is desperate, almost pleading. “Let me fix this.”

She almost bursts out laughing. Fix this? There’s nothing he can do to fix any of this. Her wounds run much deeper than burnt flesh now.

“I trusted you,” she whispers shakily. “How could you? Did you know this was going to happen?”

John’s gaze doesn’t meet hers as he replies, “All magic has a cost, love.”

What is she supposed to say to that? What is _anyone_ supposed to say to that?

“My father was right,” she continues, voice rising in volume. “My father was right about you, and I dismissed his warning because I trusted you. Because I-”

She takes a moment to catch her breath, and the silence that hangs between them is almost suffocating. When she speaks again, her voice is startlingly calm. “You’re a heartless bastard, John. You use people and you don’t care what becomes of them. You don’t care if you have to trample over them, as long as it gets you what you want.”

Zatanna finally lifts her gaze to look at him, and sees him standing before her, hanging his head, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He’s taking this because he needs it, she realizes, and suddenly, she can’t bring herself to give him the satisfaction of an emotional release.

She collapses inelegantly on the armchair, all strength sucked from her body. “Just go, John. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

He stands there motionless for a moment longer, and just when she thinks she might have to yell at him after all, he turns on his heel.

After a couple steps, he pauses. From the corner of her eyes, she can see him turn around slightly to look at her over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Zee.”

She doesn’t bother to give a response. She closes her eyes, and listens to the sound of the door creaking, of footsteps fading into the distance.

John Constantine, she realizes, is an illusion. She built up this idealized version of him in her mind, because she’s wide-eyed and idealistic and wants so desperately to believe he can be better than he is. Maybe a part of her loved him, even.

 _Never again_ , she tells herself.

**iv.**

As the years pass, that night at Wintersgate slowly begins to fade into a distant memory, and John Constantine along with it. Most days, Zatanna doesn’t think about him. Instead, she focuses her efforts into rebuilding her life, bit by bit. She escapes to San Francisco. Her townhouse here is smaller, but it’s a clean slate, and that’s all that matters to her. A fresh start.

She takes up her father’s work, honoring him the only way she knows how. It’s a long, painful journey, and not without its setbacks, but it’s her only way forward.

The scars never truly heal, but over time, she learns to live with them, learns how to stop them from hurting.

Eventually, her life manages to return to a semblance of normalcy.

Against her better judgment, Zatanna revisits the memory frequently. She finds that the more time passes, the harder it becomes for her to lay the blame on a single person for what had transpired. She hates John, but she hates herself, too. Her anger at him had not been enough for her to completely shrug off the burden of responsibility.

(After all, her father had only ever wanted to protect her. Even if the cost was his own downfall.)

(After all, John had never asked for her heart. She gave it to him, willingly and without hesitation.)

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when she hears a knock at the door, so of course, she doesn’t know what to expect. What (or who) she finds nearly knocks the breath out of her, and for a few moments, she has to grip the door to steady herself.

“Hello, love.”

Standing on her doorstep is a ghost.

“John,” she releases a shaky breath.

She hasn’t seen or heard from him since that fateful night, and now that he’s standing before her, it doesn’t feel real. He looks gaunt and weary in a way that she’s never seen him, like the weight of the world crushing him down has finally taken its toll.

“Before you slam the door,” he says hastily. “We need your help. Please.”

Zatanna wants to brush him off and turn him away. The audacity to come asking for her help, after what happened the last time. Hasn’t he taken enough from her, hasn’t he-

But then she looks at John’s hollow eyes and disheveled hair, and she can’t bring herself to say no. No matter what he’s done, she cannot spit venom at him. Her tongue is for backwards magic, beautiful and enchanting and healing, the most precious legacy her father has left her. It will not become a weapon to get even.

So she sighs and opens the door just a little wider. “What do you need, John?”

He steps aside and reveals a tiny, bespectacled boy with messy dark hair sticking every which way. The boy looks at her with wide, curious eyes, mouth agape.

“Come say hello, Tim.”

The boy looks almost star-struck. “You’re Zatanna,” he marvels. “The lady magician on TV.”

She smiles, and finds it is genuine. “That’s me. And I’m guessing you’re Tim?”

He nods eagerly. “My name’s Timothy Hunter.”

She looks at John, who is doing his best to feign interest in his own shoes, and back at Tim, who is fidgeting nervously. It only takes her a moment to make up her mind.

“Well, come on in, then.”

It doesn’t take much effort to coax Tim into her living room. The boy is exhausted, and eagerly takes her up on her offer of cookies and a relaxing sofa. John, on the other hand, hovers uncomfortably in her foyer, like he won’t make a move without her express permission. He seems unable to look her in the eyes for longer than a couple seconds before averting his gaze like someone who’s committed an unspeakable wrong. Which, she supposes, isn’t entirely untrue.

“Tim has incredible magic potential,” he explains. “I’m helping him figure out if this is what he really wants. To be a part of this world.”

“You’re helping him?” she repeats, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of her voice. After all, the John she knows isn’t exactly known for his altruism.

He nods, unfazed by her reaction. “Only problem is, there’s people trying to kill him. So I thought he’d stay here, until I can figure some things out. If that’s alright with you.”

Zatanna crosses her arms. “Of course he can stay with me.”

John looks as if a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders, but the smile he gives her doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, Zee.”

Before she can respond, something thrums in his pocket. John pulls out a gold compass, regards it for a moment, then swears under his breath.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I have to go,” he says, already moving toward the front door. “Something’s come up.”

“Where are you going?” she follows him down the hall. She realizes that she sounds almost _concerned_ , and hates herself for it.

“John?” Tim pokes his head out of the living room, curious and apprehensive at the same time. 

“Take care of him until I get back, will you, love?” he’s already pulling the door open, dodging her question entirely. “Don’t worry, Tim, you’re in good hands. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He disappears before either of them can get another word in.

Zatanna stands there, eyes transfixed to the spot where he’d been standing moments ago. John has always been a whirlwind, there’s little stopping him once he’s made up his mind. And of course, he’s always the one calling the shots. Always the one making unilateral decisions with no care for her feelings in the matter. For a moment, she feels herself yanked back through time, when she didn’t know any better, and the world was just a little brighter. When she wasn’t so afraid to love.

Then she takes a deep breath, and turns to Tim with a smile. “So, how about more cookies?”

She likes Tim. He’s perceptive for his age, curious in an almost endearing way, and his constant astonishment to basically everything she does reminds her of herself at that age, when magic was new and exciting. It’s good to be reminded, every now and then, of the things she’s taken for granted.

“It’s a long story,” Tim says, when asked about his meeting with John. “I’m not sure how to feel about him yet. He’s rather odd.”

Zatanna rolls her eyes as she sets the table for dinner. “You have no idea.”

Tim regards her for a long moment. Finally, he broaches the subject hesitantly. “Look, I shouldn’t ask, but… are you and him-?”

She flinches, but recovers quickly. Lord help her, the kid is almost _too_ perceptive. “No, no. God, no. At least, not anymore.”

“Hmm,” Tim hums thoughtfully.

Curiosity gets the better of her. “Why do you ask? Did John say anything?”

“No,” Tim shakes his head, twirling with a fork. “I was just curious, because… he was acting kind of strange, when he talked about you.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” Tim shrugs. “He was just… quiet, I guess.”

John returns three days later, just after midnight.

She’s sitting in her study, poring over a book when she hears him stumbling through the window. Inelegantly too, from the sound of it. She gets up, and makes her way downstairs toward the noise, being careful not to wake Tim.

She finds him, again, standing in the foyer, slowly peeling his coat off. Even in the dark and with his back to her, she can see that he’s injured. There’s something that may or may not be dried blood staining his shirt, and when he takes it off, there are scratches and bruises all over his shoulders and back. He hisses in pain with every slight movement, and Zatanna quashes a strange, familiar feeling stirring within her.

John doesn’t turn to look at her when he speaks, his voice quiet and hoarse. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” she answers, trying not to sound too startled. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You should be,” he says gently. He sounds so, so tired. “It’s late.”

“You’re hurt.”

He shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

They both fall silent, as John clumsily gathers up his discarded clothes from the floor. Zatanna watches him, mentally cataloguing the canvas that is his skin. He’s gained some new scars, windows into the parts of his life that she had never witnessed, the parts of him that will forever remain unknown to her. But there are familiar ones she recognizes, too, and the sight of them sends shivers down her spine.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly, shaking her out of her reverie.

“You’ve said that already.”

“I know, it’s just-” he trails off. In all her time knowing him, she’s never known John Constantine to be at a loss for words. No matter what, he always had a comeback. Always had to have the last word.

“I know me being here was the last thing you wanted,” he says finally.

“I didn’t do this for you,” she replies, bristling slightly.

He smiles sadly. “I know.”

Without sparing her another glance, he makes to leave the room. As it often happens when it comes to John, she moves before she can stop herself. “Wait.”

He throws her an inquiring look, and suddenly, words elude her. All she can do is stare at him, at his hunched shoulders and sunken eyes, at the bruises and scars and tattoos, thrumming weakly as if they might go out any moment. For the first time, she sees the way the years have worn on him. Finally, she understands the uneasiness she’s felt since his reappearance. He’s changed. Gone are the witty comebacks and the infuriating smirk she had hated and loved so much. He just looks… exhausted.

“You should get some rest,” he tells her before the silence can get awkward. “Goodnight, love.”

He leaves without another word, and the silence that follows threatens to consume her whole.

The next morning, John decides that he and Tim should move on. It’s not a good idea to stay in one place for too long, he reasons, and they’ve already bothered her enough as is.

Zatanna can only nod in agreement, because he’s John Constantine and he moves to his own rhythm while the rest have to play catch-up. John Constantine, she knows, is a storm. He’s going to leave her life the same way he came in: suddenly and all at once, and there’s nothing she can do to stop him.

She drives them to the airport, because of course she does, and even pulls a few (magical) strings to get them the proper documentation to get them to their next pit stop. And when John looks at her, he gives her that old smirk she has missed so badly, and she feels her breath catch in her throat.

Tim gives her an earnest hug. “Thank you, Zatanna. You’ve been a terrific hostess.”

“And you’ve been a terrific houseguest,” she says. “Call me next time you’re in the States, okay?”

She then turns to John, but finds that not for the first time, she can’t find the words to say.

John nods at her. “Goodbye, love.”

With that, he turns to leave. Almost immediately, something nags at her with such urgency that she cannot hold back any longer. The words come out before she can stop herself. “When will I see you again?”

They hang heavily in the air, the painful silence only accentuated by the bustle of rushing passengers all around them. Instantly, she knows she’s made a mistake. She’s worn her heart on her sleeve again, despite the warning signs, despite the things he’s done. When it comes to John Constantine, she’ll forever stay that same foolish girl, never learning, never changing.

John turns slightly to look at her over his shoulder. The sight is so familiar that she feels her chest constrict.

“Be well, Zee,” he says simply.

She watches as he disappears in the crowd, lost to her once more.

**v.**

Diana finds her one day with an offer. To join a team of superheroes, with a mission to save the world.

She makes a half-hearted attempt at refusal, at first.

The shadow of Wintersgate looms over her, and Zatanna is convinced that it must be masochism that brought her back here, to this place she has tried so hard and failed to erase from her memory. She feels the skin on her hand tingle, and shudders.

The scars may have faded, but she knows they’re still there, under the surface, just waiting for the right moment, the right trigger, to rear their ugly heads once more.

Something clicks behind her, followed by a familiar voice.

“Long time no see, love.”

She turns around, and there he is, like he’s just materialized out of thin air. It’s the way things always go with them: he pops in and out of her life without warning, with years of radio silence in-between. Zatanna thinks she ought to be used to it by now, but for some strange reason, he still manages to catch her off-guard, every time.

“John,” she says by way of greeting. It’s a familiar dance now, between the two of them.

He looks well. Better than the last time she saw him, like he’s regained a bit of his old self, the person she knew before things started going to hell, before Wintersgate. He’s watching her intently, like he’s trying to read for a sign, and she quickly averts her gaze.

“Did Diana send you?” she asks. She knows it’s absurd, but she’s still sore from the encounter with the Amazon princess, and maybe a bit overly wary.

John chuckles. “Me? God, no. As if Wonder Woman would ever stoop that low, dealing with the likes of me. Not even the magic community wants anything to do with me anymore. A charlatan, is all I am to them. I’d be offended, if they weren’t so spot on.”

“You’re a part of this world, John,” she points out gently. “You always have been.”

He takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke into the night sky. “Always giving me more credit than I deserve, Zee. You haven’t changed. You care far too much.”

“What about you?” she retorts. “You’re not working with Diana, or the others… so why are you here, really?”

He looks at her meaningfully, before averting his gaze and taking another drag.

“Magic is dying,” she says, compelled to explain herself even without being asked to. “I can’t just stand by and watch.”

“Magic has always meant different things to the two of us, love.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I see things differently than most,” he says. “This is bigger than any of us. This goes well beyond allegiances, or inner circle elitism. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

She regards him thoughtfully. “You’ve changed.”

His smile is almost rueful. “It’s a brave new world. You either adapt or die.”

They stand in silence, looking at the manor towering over them. The place where it all started. The end of everything.

“We should’ve never gone,” she says, more to herself than to him.

“But we did,” he replies, not unkindly. “And nothing has been the same ever since.”

Zatanna turns to look at him. The man who had come into her life and turned it on its head, the man who had cost her everything, the man she still can’t hate. Not really. Maybe not at all.

John still seems determined to smoke his cigarette all the way through. His chain smoking habits had never bothered her when they were together, but somehow this time, worry gnaws at her, perhaps irrationally. She voices her concern anyway.

“Those things will kill you.”

He shrugs. “There are worse ways to go.”

Knowing John, she has no doubt he’s being serious. Nevertheless, he flicks the cigarette away and puts it out with his heel. Wordlessly, he shoves both hands into his pockets, and makes to leave.

“Wait, you’re just gonna leave?” Zatanna asks, incredulous.

He throws her a half-smirk over his shoulder. “What, miss me already?”

There is some part of her that is vaguely aware that they shouldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t be bantering like the past few years never happened, like they’re not literally standing in front of the place where her father died in a doomed séance that was _his_ idea. Try as they might, they cannot walk back their mistakes, and pretending otherwise would be a farce.

But the worst part is, it feels _natural_ , being with him, talking to him. She has missed this.

“You’re a dick, John Constantine.”

“And you love it,” he gives her a meaningful look. “Think about it, will you, love?”

“John, wait-” she takes a step toward him, but John has already faded into the darkness, as suddenly as he reappeared.

John Constantine, she thinks, is still an enigma.

Diana finds her one day with an offer. To join a team of superheroes, with a mission to save the world. A Justice League for mystics, she says. _We need you, Zatanna. We can’t do this without you._

She makes a half-hearted attempt at refusal. It doesn’t last, of course. Because she is her and when the world needs her, she answers the call. Every time. No matter the cost.

(Deep down, in places she won’t admit out loud, she knows his words played a part in swaying her mind. Because after all this time, she still trusts him. Even if he’d let her down. Even if he’d broken her heart.)

This time, it’s Zatanna who finds him.

She finds him exactly where she expects him to be, sitting in the Oblivion bar, looking by all means determined to drink himself into a stupor.

“We need to talk,” she says, standing over him with her hands on her hips. John freezes momentarily, but otherwise makes no attempt to acknowledge her presence.

She sits down on the next bar stool, watches patiently as he downs the rest of his drink. Finally, his gaze meets hers.

“What do you want?” he asks bluntly, though there’s no malice in his voice. It angers her all the same.

“I want the truth.”

He regards her thoughtfully, his demeanor weary and resigned.

He tells her the truth.

They sit in silence long afterwards, until all the other patrons have left.

John is the first to speak. “So, what happens now?”

Zatanna shakes herself out of her reverie. She keeps her gaze firmly on the counter before her, studying the swirls and scratches in the wood. She can’t bear to look at him right now. She’s afraid of the things she might do, the words she might say, if she does.

John seems unsettled by her continued silence. He turns to her, a franticness in his voice that she hasn’t heard since Wintersgate. “You wanted the truth. I’ve told you the truth.”

She laughs mirthlessly. “I don’t think that makes a difference anymore, John.”

“All magic has a cost, love. You know this better than anyone-”

“Don’t,” she cuts him off, breathing heavily. “Was it all a lie? Everything – everything. It was all a part of some cosmic chess game you and my father concocted together, wasn’t it? Was any of it real?”

“For god’s sake, Zee-”

“You know what, on second thought, I don’t really want to know,” she says, sliding off the bar stool and stalking toward the exit, steadfastly ignoring John’s protests.

Outside, the cold wind whips at her face. She doesn’t mind. She’ll take anything to distract from the storm brewing within her. Questions and what-ifs dance in a whirlwind until all she can do to not lose it is to block it all out.

Through it all, John refuses to leave her thoughts. Where does this leave them? Is he absolved from his part in her father’s death? Or does his guilt weigh even more heavily now that she knows he’s been lying to her about it all those years?

Deep down, in places she won’t even admit to herself, she’s relieved. The truth can be painful, but there’s liberation in it, too. She basks in it, tries to find comfort in it.

She can figure out the rest later.

There’s still time.

They’re gathered around a table, discussing their next move, when John excuses himself and slinks out of the room, his shoulders hunched, a slight sway in his steps that would’ve been imperceptible to most people.

Not her. She’s known him far too long, has memorized his every movement too well not to notice.

(She notices because somewhere, deep down in the crevices between her anger and his betrayal, a part of her will always care about him.)

So she follows him into an empty room, where she witnesses an uncontrollable coughing fit and a handkerchief stained with blood.

“John,” she whispers, voice shaky. “What’s going on?”

He flinches slightly, but when he turns around to look at her, the look on his face is one of resignation.

“Guess there’s no point in pretending anymore,” he says, voice hoarse from coughing. “I imagine you can guess what this is. The prognosis… isn’t great.”

She feels her heart drop down to her stomach. _Those things will kill you._ “How long do you have?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Not long.”

“It can’t be. There must be a way.”

He smiles ruefully. “I told you when we first met, remember? There are things even magic can’t fix.”

“If I didn’t catch you when I did… When were you going to tell me?” she asks.

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s not make a big deal out of this, alright? I did tell you, didn’t I?”

“Not a big deal?” her voice rises an octave, and John visibly grimaces. “You’re _dying_ , John!”

“And it’s nothing less than I deserve!” he bites back. “Let’s not pretend neither of us saw this coming.”

They stand there in silence, both of them shocked by his outburst. After a moment, John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You shouldn’t still care, Zee. Not after what I’ve done.”

She feels her anger dissipate in an instant. “You _don’t_ deserve this, John.”

He takes a step, and wobbles slightly on his feet. Instinctively, she reaches out to him, but he holds up a hand, stopping her in her tracks.

Her heart constricts. John has always been like this, always kept people at arm’s length. She’d thought she was the exception, but – well, does it matter anymore?

“Look, I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you. Can we- can we talk about this later? I’m feeling a bit tired. Don’t tell the others just yet, we wouldn’t want anything distracting from the mission.”

He brushes past her, and suddenly, she’s whisked back to that night in her townhouse, the moonlight shining on his bruised and battered form and a suffocating silence hanging between them. There’s always been silence between them, she recalls. Silence and secrets and things left unsaid.

She’d let him leave, back then. Not this time.

She grabs his arm, stilling his movements. He glances at her hand inquiringly, but otherwise makes no attempt to shrug her off.

“John, please,” she whispers. “Don’t push me away again.”

“Zee, I-” for a moment his face crumbles, but he quickly regains his resolve. “I can’t do this to you. Not again. I can’t.”

“John-”

He’s already on his way out, but then stops at the door to give her a weak smile. “I’m going to be alright. We’ll talk about this later, I promise. After we save your father.”

It’s as much of an olive branch as he’s willing to extend at the moment, she realizes. She reluctantly takes it, tries to be content with it. For now, it has to be enough.

Deep down, she knows that to not be true. By the time they manage to save her father – if that ever happens – it’ll be too late.

They’re running out of time.

The thing is, she never thought it would turn out like this. For all of his coming and going in and out of her life through the years, she had come to expect that he’d always be there. In her mind, John Constantine had become a constant. A force to be reckoned with, he has escaped certain death time and time again, that at times she had thought him invincible.

She never thought that in the end, it could be something as mundane as cancer that would put out his light for good.

She should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve predicted that this would happen right from the start. Somehow, after all these years, John still manages to surprise her.

She should’ve known that John Constantine wouldn’t take anything lying down, including death. Should’ve known he’d insist on going out on his own terms.

She realizes too late only when the Upside-Down Man’s deadly magic pierces straight through John’s chest.

Zatanna doesn’t remember if the scream is her own, or something else entirely. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does anymore. Even as she’s holding him, desperately willing him to fight, to hold on, she knows it’s too late.

“John,” she whispers, voice frantic. “John, I-”

“Magic always has… a cost,” he rasps through broken lungs. “This… was mine.”

She watches helplessly as he takes a few more difficult breaths before going still, his eyes glazed over, staring into nothing.

She stifles a scream as she feels his dead weight drag her down, down into the abyss.

Never in a million years did she think it would end like this.

**+1**

By the time they stumble back into Shadowcrest, light is streaming in through the half-opened window curtains.

The afternoon sun is anything but intense, but it startles her anyway. For a moment, she is taken aback: It seems so incomprehensible, so absurd that the sun is still shining, that there are still people out there going about their day in blissful ignorance, when her world had once again been turned upside down.

John gently sits her down on the armchair, and it’s such a familiar scene that it makes her heart ache: The two of them, in the parlor of her home, her father lost to her once more.

Zatanna feels no regret. It was all Giovanni’s decision, the final move in his grand plan to save the world that’s been in the making for years, possibly far longer than she could ever imagine. Knowing he’s finally at peace gives her some degree of comfort.

Still, she lets herself grieve. For the man who raised her, who taught her everything she knows about magic and so much more. She grieves for the precious years they had together, for the many more years they could’ve had.

Such is the price of magic. She’d always known it. She just never imagined it’d be so steep.

She watches idly as John moves to light the fire with a snap of his fingers, and relishes in the warmth of the hearth that permeates through the room almost instantly.

Without thinking, she reaches out for him and he takes her hand, kneeling in front of her. She traces her fingers gently, almost reverently on his face, down his neck, feels the steady pulse on his wrist, as if it was the only thing tethering her to this world. It might be.

“Zee, I-” he begins, but she quickly stops him.

“Don’t,” she whispers, index finger still lingering on his lips. “Don’t say anything. I just need a moment. Just to make sure you’re really here.”

“I _am_ here,” he says gently, taking both of her hands in his own. “I’m here, love.”

Zatanna exhales, feeling all the tension leave her body at once, and finally lifts her gaze to look into his eyes. It’s far from the first time she’s seen him this up close, and yet, in all the years she’s known him, John Constantine has never looked so _real_.

“I’m sorry,” he adds after a moment of silence, clutching her hands, which are still cupping his face.

Instantly, every cell in her body is crying out in protest. He shouldn’t feel guilty for being alive, nor should he feel indebted to her or her father. This was always Giovanni’s intention, making up for all of the years of pain and loss the only way he knew how.

Despite her grief, she’s relieved. A part of her thinks she ought to be ashamed, but she doesn’t. Not really.

“You should eat something,” John says. “Maybe get some rest.”

The thought of food sends her stomach lurching, so she shakes her head.

“A hot bath, then,” he suggests. He’s always been persistent, which lends itself well to the situation at hand. “That should make you feel better.”

Knowing he won’t give up until she says yes, Zatanna relents. A part of her feels bad that he’s the one taking care of her, when it was him who had been dead mere hours ago, but she lets him, too tired to argue. Another part of her enjoys it. It feels… nice.

She watches as he runs the bath and rummages through her wardrobe with the practiced ease of someone who knows the way around the house, who knows _her_. He looks like someone who belongs here. The thought of it makes her throat close up, aching from the familiarity of it all.

Once everything is ready though, she hesitates at the bathroom door. “What about you?”

He reads the hidden plea in her question, and shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bless his heart, he’s always understood her, though he might not always show it.

By the time she’s finished soaking up and changed into a fresh set of clothes, she feels several stones lighter. John helps her into bed and even tucks her in. No matter how rough he can be, John has always been remarkably gentle with her. It makes her wonder, not for the first time, how things might’ve turned out for them, had their lives been just a little different. Just a little better.

As he moves away, she finds herself grasping onto his hand. “Wait.”

John stops and sits back down at the edge of the bed. “What is it, love?”

“Stay with me,” she whispers.

He hesitates, but only for a second, as she soon feels the mattress dip under his weight as he settles next to her. They lie together in the dark, like they’ve done so many times before, and suddenly she feels as if no time had passed at all. As if fate had frozen them both in time, waiting for them to figure themselves out. Like their entire lives, all the hurt and betrayals, had been building up to this moment. The two of them, together, back where they started.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she chokes up. “Back there, I thought-”

“Shh,” he caresses her cheek, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s over now. I’m here. I’m alive.”

As if to prove his point, he takes her hand and places it upon his chest, right over his heart. She releases a shaky breath, mentally counting the steady heartbeats.

After her heartbeats have calmed, he begins hesitantly. “Zee, your father-”

“Did what he had to do,” she asserts. “You’ve paid a great price, helping him. He’s only making things right.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” John’s gaze darkens. “For someone like me, to get another chance-”

“Don’t you understand, John?” Zatanna whispers, feeling her eyes sting. “Even now, you still don’t understand how much you mean to me.”

“Only a fool couldn’t see it, though I wish it weren’t so. Being with me… it brought you nothing but pain.”

She wipes the tears from her eyes. “We can’t stop ourselves from getting hurt. The same way we don’t get to choose who we love.”

His eyes widen then, in shock and awe and a thousand emotions she cannot quite discern, but most of all, joy.

“It wasn’t a lie,” he whispers, a quiet admission in the night.

“What?”

“You asked me for the truth. I’m telling you the truth now. It was never a lie. Not with you.”

She lets her tears fall freely then. “John.”

John’s gaze is impossibly soft when he asks, voice barely audible even in the silence. “What do you need, Zee? Just say the word.”

She doesn’t have to think before the answer comes to her, as naturally as breathing. “You. I need you.”

He holds her gaze meaningfully. “Even after everything?”

She nods. Taking it as the express permission that it is, he takes her into his arms.

Zatanna falls asleep to the steady rhythm of John Constantine’s heart.

She doesn’t know what she expected to find when she awoke in the morning, but John is there.

“Morning, love,” he greets her. He looks alert, like he’s been awake for hours. The smell of breakfast wafts through the house, and for the first time in many years, Shadowcrest feels like the home it used to be, and not a prison of memories.

They sit down for breakfast, even though the very idea of it is so ridiculous that she almost laughs. She had long ago accepted that peaceful breakfasts are for happy, well-adjusted people, which she and John decidedly are not.

Still, she gives it a try, tries not to question why the food is so good ( _magic_ , she’ll realize later), and finds she doesn’t hate it. Sometimes, change isn’t entirely bad.

“How do you feel?” he asks, once their plates are empty.

“As good as I’m able to, at the moment,” she says.

He smiles. “That’s a start.”

The nightmares torment her for the first fortnight. She would close her eyes and drift off, only to see visions of her father burning alive, of John’s lifeless body and empty eyes, and wake up in a cold sweat.

Every time without fail, she feels John’s arms around her, a calming force in the raging storm.

“Shh,” his voice is soft, impossibly soft. “You’re alright, love. It was only a bad dream. I’m here.”

Every time, as she falls back asleep to John’s steady heartbeats, the nightmare are driven a bit further away, until they stop coming altogether.

Every time she wakes up, John is there.

“You’re here,” she remarks one morning. It’s not phrased as a question, though he takes it as one anyway.

“I said I would be, didn’t I?”

She doesn’t ask anymore questions.

John makes an effort to quit smoking.

Zatanna doesn’t even try to hide how pleased she is about it.

It should be terrifying, how quickly John settles into a comfortable rhythm by her side, almost like he never left. But like all things when it comes to John Constantine, it feels natural, almost instinctive. Eventually, she stops trying to question it.

She occasionally invites him into her bed, just to feel the warmth of his body pressing against her. Some days, it’s the only thing anchoring her, keeping her from floating far away.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

The answer comes to her instantly, naturally, like the truth of her very existence.

“Yes.”

“Are we really doing this, John?” she asks.

He looks startled, but to his credit, doesn’t feign ignorance.

“We’ve known each other for so long, and through it all, we have never tried, not really,” she continues. “What we had back then… it was different. It might’ve been what we thought we needed at the time, even, but we have never _truly_ tried.”

He regards her for a long moment. “What are you thinking about, love?”

“I think we’ve skirted around this for too long,” she says. “Whatever… _this_ is.”

He moves closer to her, looking into her eyes. “And _this_ … really is what you want?”

“I want to _try_ ,” she whispers, feeling the tears prickling at her eyes. “I know you want this, too. I know you, John. Just say the word.”

He smiles ruefully. “You deserve better things, Zee. Better than what I can give you.”

“Stop. We’re not falling back into that again. Look at me, John,” she looks at him meaningfully. “Do you want this?”

She feels his gaze pierce through her very soul, and when he finally answers, she knows with absolute certainty that he means it.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Things aren’t perfect, she knows. The journey to recovery isn’t linear, nor without its setbacks. There’s no magical cure for all of their problems. They love too fast and too hard and sometimes they make mistakes, but they try, and that alone is enough.

The road ahead is long and difficult, but beyond that, she believes that there’s a future for them, if only they’d keep going.

John still touches every inch of her skin reverently, like she was a vision. He still looks at her like she’s made of the stars in the sky. She still trusts him with her whole being. Some things never change.

But they learn, and gradually, she allows herself to hope for the kind of future she once thought was impossible for them. A family together, perhaps even something more. 

Long ago, she used to stop her mind from wandering further. She had not dared to hope for more than what he was willing to give her at any given moment, the fear of baring your soul only to free-fall into the abyss without anyone catching you.

Now, every time she looks at John, the fear dissipates in an instant.

She trusts him. He doesn’t give her a reason not to.

It hits them one day, suddenly and all at once. Less like an epiphany, more like a hidden truth they hadn’t been ready to acknowledge or speak into existence until this very moment.

“I love you, Zee,” he whispers against her skin, and her breath hitches in her throat.

“I love you,” she replies, and finds that she means it.

John Constantine, she realizes at last, is _home_.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a little project I've had going on for a while that ended up taking far longer than expected, but I'm quite pleased with the results and I hope you enjoyed reading this, too! As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and cherished. And of course, feel free to cry with me over John/Zee, I'm always in a mood to talk about them and their beautifully messy, beautifully tragic relationship. 
> 
> Events referenced in individuals sections: iii) Swamp Thing (1982) #49; iv) Books of Magic (1990) #2; v) Justice League Dark (2018) #1, #13, #26
> 
> Find me and my shenanigans on tumblr [@wondertrevor](http://wondertrevor.tumblr.com)!


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